Lost in the Memories
by LanahG
Summary: Jim Beckett has been struggling greatly in the 2 months after his wife's death. He misses her so much, and so he does something to make himself feel connected to her.


March 9, 1999

Jim came through the door to his apartment and immediately went for the fridge. He had just bought a brand new crate of Jack Daniels whiskey the day before, and it had become his new favorite drink. In the past 2 months, he had tried more drinks than he had had in his entire life, and he was determined to find one that would be his drink of choice.

Before his wife was murdered, she and him would drink together. Never heavily, but to the point when they would be past buzzed, and often it was after one of them had a success at work. They'd ensure that Katie was out of the house, of course, and with her multitude of activities and friends she usually was, and they'd pop open a bottle of vodka or whiskey. She was the lightweight, and about four shots would do the trick with her. His serious, hardworking, take-no-bullshit-from-anyone wife would become giggly and uninhibited. She'd laugh at anything, and most of all, she often got very horny. As Jim opened the bottle and put it straight to his mouth, not even bothering to get a glass, his mind flashed to the multitude of times that they'd made love in the living room or bedroom when they were drunk. He'd take her on top of the counter, her head thrown back and screaming loudly in ecstasy as he fucked her hard, or she'd push him onto his back on the floor and ride him with a wild abandon that would always cause him to finish faster than he intended to. Afterwards, they'd always stumble over to bed and fall asleep, naked and content in each other's arms.

What he would give to have just more chance to make love to his extraordinary wife. What he would give to tell her that he loved her, kiss her, hug her, tell her how beautiful she was. But it was never going to happen.

His wife was gone forever, and she wasn't coming back.

After Jim had chugged about as much as he could, he put the bottle down and looked at it. He'd drained about a fifth of it. He still wanted more though, so he put it once more to his mouth and drank a few more gulps. Satisfied, he stumbled over to his bedroom and flopped on top of the bed, his bed that had been half-empty for the past 2 months.

Many of Jim's friends and family told him that it would get easier. That it would be a gradual process, and eventually he would learn to live with the pain of losing the love of his life, and he really wanted to believe them. But it had been 2 months, and the pain was not going away; in fact, it was intensifying. She felt his absence more and more each day. He had gathered up the strength last month to cleanse their bedroom and bathroom of all of her things- clothes, undergarments, soaps, shampoos, and towels. He thought that if he didn't have to look at something that was once hers every time he walked through the room, that this might help him heal. It had the opposite effect. Since their rooms were so filled with her things (she had many more than he did, she was a woman after all), the house seemed incredibly empty. There was a huge chunk missing, and that chunk didn't seem like it would ever be filled.

At this point, even the thought of moving on and finding another woman made him sick. He still wore his wedding ring on his left ring finger, and intended to leave that ring on there until the day he died. Johanna may be gone from this world, but she was still his wife, and he was not going to betray her memory by finding solace in another woman. That being said, he was still a man, and his biological needs as a man hadn't been fulfilled since the night before her murder. He hadn't had a single rush of sexual desire in 2 months, but something was different about this day. The memories of the lovemaking he and his wife used to do stirred something inside him, and he felt an inexplicable rush of arousal, and he did the only thing that he could fathom doing- pulled off his pants and boxers so he could lose himself in the sweet, sweet memories of being intimately joined to his wife.

He slid under the covers and pulled the blanket over himself, which thankfully still smelled a bit like her. He inhaled deeply while his right hand carefully grabbed his cock. God, he'd almost forgotten how good that felt. He tightly closed his eyes and he could perfectly picture Johanna's soft hands stroking him instead of his own. He started off slowly, like she would do. He squeezed tighter and groaned as he imagined her wet mouth engulfing him, sucking softly. His left hand massaged his balls, and he imagined Johanna's mouth leaving his cock with a wet pop and moving to minister to them. She gave the best head in the world, always knowing just how much pressure to apply and just how fast to go.

He groaned again as he imagined her straddling him and running his cock back and forth against her dripping wet pussy. He'd grow impatient and _finally _she'd sink down on him with a sexy moan. He tightly gripped his cock and imitated the slow, silky slide of her muscles down his length.

Oh, God, it was too much and not enough at the same time. He wanted her so badly that he could barely think straight, and he let out a cry of pain and pleasure and he started pumping his hand up and down furiously, imagining her breasts bouncing as she rode him hard, her lips crashing down onto his as they exchanged breaths. He bit his lip as he imagined himself capturing one of her hard nipples into his mouth and sucking roughly, making her scream in pleasure. He got up onto his knees and faced the pillow as he imagined flipping her onto her back and hoisting her legs up over his shoulders as he continued to pound into her furiously. She was usually beyond coherent thought at this point, her sounds a mixture of moans and a chorus of "harder, fuck yes, oh God right there, don't stop."

He could feel himself getting ready to come, and he never, ever came unless she had come first. So he pressed his left thumb into the sheets and imagined himself rubbing gentle circles on her clit, in sharp contrast to the rough fucking he was giving her. She moaned and brought her mouth to his left earlobe, his most erogenous zone, and ran her tongue over the shell and bit his earlobe. He grunted and doubled his efforts, making her bite his shoulder and dig her nails into his back as she got closer and closer. Finally he pushed her over the edge, screaming his name over and over as wave after wave of orgasm ripped through her, which he imitated by rhythmically squeezing his cock.

He was so close, _so close. _The closer he got, the better he could picture her, and the more pained he felt by her absence. A few more strokes and he was there, crying out her name as he spilled onto the pillowcase and imagined her wet heat taking all that he had to give her.

"Johanna, oh God," he whimpered as he rolled over onto his back. In his post-orgasmic haze, he imagined his wife looking at him with a satisfied smile on her face, and reaching over to kiss him softly. He imagined running his fingers through her silky hair as they kissed, while she stroked his stubbly cheeks.

As the haze lifted, however, she opened his eyes and looked over at the empty pillow next to him, a pillow that would until the end of time never have Johanna lying on top of it, and his grief hit him like a freight train.

"Johanna," he cried, reaching for her pillow and burying his face in it while he sobbed harder than he had in weeks. He cried for her, for the days they'd never get to spend together, for them never growing old together, for Johanna never seeing her daughter grow up into an incredible woman.

And when he was done crying, he got up, went to the kitchen, and once again opened up the bottle of Jack.


End file.
